


Daily Bread (Or: Half A Loaf Is Better Than None)

by milesawayfromthevoid



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (Not In The Way You'd Expect), Baking puns (just a few), Crowley's Secret Love Of Gardening, Dating While Oblivious™, First Kiss, Fluff, Ft. Aziraphale's Fear Of Repurcussions, Humour, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Like Both Love Each Other But Both Are Also Really Oblivious, Like. It's an undercurrent but theres also, M/M, Mild Angst, Multi, Mutual Pining, Other, Slow Burn, Supporting Local Businesses and Arts Programs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-06-27 09:31:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19788091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milesawayfromthevoid/pseuds/milesawayfromthevoid
Summary: So he's supposed to confess his undying love, eh? Go out on a limb and lay his heart out? Well, it's a good thing that Aziraphale is going through a baking phase, because if there's one thing that Crowley is good at (aside from his smouldering sense of style), it's growing plants.Working Title: Aziraphale Bakes, A Plant Quakes, And Crowley SnakesAKA: There Is A Triple Pun Somewhere In That Working Title And It's Probably Not What You're Thinking Of





	Daily Bread (Or: Half A Loaf Is Better Than None)

**Author's Note:**

> Baking Idioms thanks to https://www.spellzone.com/blog/English_Idioms_The_Bake_Off_Edition.htm:  
> Daily Bread: "What one needs in order to survive"  
> Half a Loaf is Better Than None: "It is better to accept less than you want than it is to have nothing at all."  
> Both, I think, are very fitting to these idiots' feelings for one another.
> 
> I have been working on this since _June 29th_. It originally started out as a cute little thing with Aziraphale baking and Crowley scaring the shit out of a plant, and then I added feelings and turned it into this monstrosity. Editing this alone took me an entire week of staying up till midnight, because I, stupidly, would keep adding little things as I went.  
> Anyway, points go to whoever can figure out the triple-pun.

The summer night was a crisp, bright one. The full moon hung overhead, and though London's light pollution made stargazing futile, it was the type of night that many would look up and fondly remember that they were still there. Poets and singers would agree that, that night, love was in the air.

In the streets of Soho, groups of friends and lovers were out and about, enjoying this beautiful evening. 

An angel and a demon were not among them.

No, they were tucked away in the backroom of a bookshop that does its level best to stay closed and ineffectual, in order to fulfill its true purpose as a library and archives. Currently, the angel and the demon were drinking, with a handful of crumpled tissues on the table between them to compliment the somber air. 

Aziraphale had long since stopped crying, instead wringing the clean tissue in the hand not holding a wine glass.

One might think, given the appearance of the backroom, that one of their world's had ended, or at least been rocked. It was certainly the impression that Crowley had gotten when entering, even with the knowledge of how they both reacted to the world ending. 

However, it was much simpler than that. 

The bakery down the street from Aziraphale's bookshop, the one that had his favourite sfogliatelle, closed after sixty years. 

“It’s just not fair,” Aziraphale sighed, for what might have been the dozenth or so time. Crowley wanted to wrap an arm around him and comfort the sighs. Or to gently grab his shoulders and shake some sense into him. Instead, he topped the angel's empty wine glass off, before emptying the bottle into his own. “They were terribly good people. Wonderfully so. They always reached out to the community. And now, something as silly as --” 

“Mafia ties,” Crowley muttered into his glass. 

Aziraphale frowned. “Well, it’s not fair to them. It’s not their fault that they were being used to launder money. To be frank, I don’t even think they _knew_ about it.” 

“Angel, the same guy who served you those cookies last week is wanted for car theft. They, like many business owners, are aware of such things as _taxes_. I think they knew.” 

Aziraphale sighed, again, and Crowley gave in to that annoying voice in his head pleading for contact with the angel and put a hand on his forearm. Aziraphale laid a hand on Crowley's, and the demons brain nearly short-circuited itself with...urgh, _feelings._ The angel, thank Tiffany, (1) was oblivious. 

“I just wish…” Aziraphale started. “I just wish that, for once, goodness counts for more than right. They didn’t do anything wrong -- yes, fine, car theft excluded -- with the business _itself,_ and they always held fundraisers for charity.” He looked sullenly into the wine, swirling it around. “They always did what they could to protect those with less power, and I never saw them turn away someone in need. It’s just...not fair to them.” 

Crowley didn’t know what to say to that. He had an itching feeling, just barely there, that this was about more than just a simple family-owned bakery, and the path it seemed to be going down was far too treacherous for him. But ever since the body swap, he felt that he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. For someone to pop up, say “sike!” and drag them apart again. He figured that Aziraphale would keep up their momentum of optimism, or at least faith in their plan having succeeded. He was always good with faith. But seeing him so distraught was, if he was being totally honest, a little jarring. 

“Think of it this way,” he said carefully. “Somewhere, there’s a new bakery with equally nice people who _aren’t_ mob-affiliated that’s gonna be your new favourite! Maybe it’s already open! Or, maybe, it’ll open soon! Who knows! Point being that you have time to explore them. Why spend _forever_ grieving over one bakery?” 

The cheer must've sounded just as forced and unnatural to Aziraphale, who smiled thinly.

“Thank you, my dear, but you know it will never be the same,” he said. "It's the --"

“People. Yeah, but, and I can’t emphasize this enough, you have _loads_ of time to see new things. Good things. Good _people_. It could be better.” He gestured, vaguely, to Aziraphale. “And after going through everything we did to throw _them_ off, I think you should just relax and see what’s next. Pick up a hobby, maybe.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Aziraphale admitted, and finished off the dregs of his wine. 

“‘Course I’m right. Now, night’s young, let’s go out on the town. I hear there’s a place that does wonderful things to oysters.”

(1) Crowley had taken to thanking random individuals that didn't make his day miserable, rather than either side. Today, it was the barista who didn't mess up his order of two cinnamon hot chocolates. He figured it was a decent enough way to spite both Heaven and Hell's enormous egos.

* * *

With all the added time Aziraphale has from not travelling about, performing blessings and miracles mandated by Heaven, he’s decided to take up some new hobbies. He considered the closing of said bakery to be a sign towards a new creative outlet. 

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” he explained, as they strolled through a grocery store, because apparently Aziraphale couldn’t miracle up vanilla precisely right. “And I’ve decided that you’re right. I may never have the bakery again, but I can’t just never have sfogliatelle again.”

“You know, 'lobster tail' is just such a better word for them.”

“It’s just such a delight to say _sfogliatelle_ , though,” he said. “Anyway, I figured it might be fun to try a new hobby. Maybe this will be like magic!”

“I can’t tell if that’s good news or bad news, angel.”

“Oh, hush."

"At _least_ you won't have to perform."

"Actually, Anathema introduced me to this new web-site called You-Tube and I've discovered all sorts of wonderful cooking shows. Some of which are very theatrical. I think I'll put up my own videos on it."

"Better not, angel, I think our si-- _Hell_ had a hand in that site."

"In any case, it feels like a new chapter in my life, and I can't help but feel comforted if it's ordained. Maybe not _directly_ by Her, per se,” he explained, “but I do feel like there was something very --”

“Angel, if you say ‘ineffable,’ I will go home,” Crowley warned, and snatched a bag of chocolate chips from the basket and opened them. "I'll take this with me, too. Without paying."

Aziraphale tutted, but didn’t stop him. Crowley grinned, eating a handful of chips for the principle of it (of _course_ he’d miracle it closed and full before they hit the cash, there was no fun otherwise). 

“I was going to say ‘fated,’ actually, but ‘ineffable’ works, too,” Aziraphale said instead. He gave him one of his smiles, which some might consider divinely radiant and genuine, but after six thousand years of friendship, Crowley could also add in “slightly smug.”

Still took his breath away. Fuck, how did he manage to always do that to Crowley?

“Perhaps,” Crowley said. “Or, maybe, you’re just making your own decisions.” 

To emphasize his point, he leaned over the cart in a position he’d hoped was suggestive. Specifically suggesting, ‘And now that we’re _all_ making our own decisions, independent of our former employers, how’d you feel about a date, angel mine?’ He raised his eyebrows for added effect. Down the aisle, he saw an elderly couple look at them confusedly, before chuckling a little, but he would be damned, again, before he let two geriatrics judge him on his flirting style. 

Aziraphale glanced his way, then did a double-take, before quickly turning back to the bags of sugar, lips twisting into an odd expression. He seemed to be debating between the golden and brown sugar packages with an unparalleled focus. Crowley’s already slouched position deflated in defeat, but he rose in a fluid motion. 

“You _have_ money, why don’t you just get both?” Crowley asked, trying to bring back some semblance of normalcy. 

Aziraphale started. “Oh, yes, I suppose I can.” He tossed both into the basket with an uncharacteristic haste and hurried down the aisle. “I just forgot, I need lemon zest for this one. Be back in a jiffy!” 

“Absolutely _smitten_ ,” one of the old ladies at the end of the aisle said sagely. 

Crowley levelled her with a glare that made her wife pull her into the next aisle. Once they were out of sight, he miracled a few flies into the bags of sugar that had the audacity to be in his line of vision. (2) Feeling only slightly better about himself, he pushed the cart back into the produce section.

(2) If those bags should, say, fall into the hands of those who really needed the lawsuit money in order to pay off hospital bills, well. That was out of his hands by that point. He may not be on the payroll anymore, but Hell need not think he's gone _soft._

* * *

As it turned out, Aziraphale took to baking like a duck takes to water. He’d bring his goods on walks through the park, picnics, and over to Crowley’s apartment.

Crowley had to admit, the borrowed floral print china and stacks of pastries were a welcome addition to his home. At the very least, they slotted in better than imagined with the monochrome, brutalist furniture, like he had always had them. He never did have much of an appetite, but he didn’t mind burning a few miracles to keep them from spoiling. 

At some point, Aziraphale started to invite Crowley over to try it out for himself. 

They were waiting for the cheque at a seafood place. Crowley was very picky, most of his favourites being fermented and bottled, but seafood did pique his interest. Besides, he only ever went out for the company, anyway. 

“I know you prefer miracling things right away,” Aziraphale offered. “But maybe you’d enjoy it! It’d be a fun way to try something new, and explore the...the _greatest hits_ of humanity, so to speak.”

“I prefer their greatest hits in music, myself,” Crowley countered. “Like everyone else on the planet, who also only uses greatest hits to refer to _music_ , angel.”

“You know what I mean. There’s so much we’ve yet to try, and now we have the time to do so.”

Crowley shrugged, but had privately already made up his mind. “Worth a go, I suppose.”

* * *

Baking wasn't one of Crowley's forte's. For one, he wasn't very precise with measurements. When it came to fertilizers and nutrients, it didn't matter very much, since his plants knew better than to complain of too much or not enough. Toss in a handful or two of whatever, and they simply learnt to grow around it. Not so much with baking ingredients. 

Flour, sugar, salt: they all knew a fate worse than Crowley could threaten with. Ground in a garbage disposal? Set aflame? They had already resigned themselves to worse. Maybe his methods would have some weight back when they were young and impressionable wheat or sugar canes, but now? They mocked Crowley in their resistance to his hissed commands. In fact, the first three batches of cookies came out burnt to a crisp, and the fourth came out hard as a rock. (3) They responded much better to Aziraphale’s method of baking with love. (4) 

For another, it was _extraordinarily_ difficult not to get distracted whenever Aziraphale would guide his hands. Which he did. _Frequently_. All he could think about was the warmth emanating off of them, perpetually comfortable, and how that warmth had spread from the backs of his palms and fingers through his arms and wound its way around his heart, settling there like a halo. On one memorable occasion, Aziraphale had sidled up behind him in order to demonstrate how to use the strength in his elbows to knead some dough. Even if Aziraphale’s soft yet sturdy hands and Crowley’s bony forearms had been the only things touching, the proximity of the angel nearly had the demon melting. Instead of focusing, his thoughts ebbed away into an incoherent mess of languages, images and sounds, all loosely translating into _want, need,_ love _,_ _Aziraphale_. 

“There! Now you have it!” the angel said softly, clearly unable to process Crowley’s plight.

Crowley attempted to hum in assent, but what came out sounded more like a strangled click in his throat.

So yes, baking: not for Crowley. And the parts that _were_ catering to Crowley’s interests (Aziraphale touching him, _praising_ him) well, that was a whole can of condensed milk that he’d rather not open right away. It was sweet, surely, but if he’s wrong about the contents, it might end up spoiling this thing between them. Better leave it closed; he can settle for regular, platonic milk for now. 

Crowley, instead, has taken to drinking the biggest glass of vintage he can find while Aziraphale bakes, both of them content to chat and enjoy each other’s company. It was familiar and easy to just bask in Aziraphale’s attention, in a way that left Crowley feeling like a snake under a sun lamp. It was a system that worked. So long as he didn’t think too hard about the parts he was missing. 

That said, Crowley became increasingly aware of the slight manic edge surrounding the angel. It came to a head one night when the two of them were waiting for a loaf of olive bread to cool. One topic led to another and soon enough Aziraphale was telling him about obtaining a first edition of Copernicus’ _On The Revolutions of the Heavenly Spheres_. 

“And the collector was debating between selling it to another buyer, Lord Tipton, who was a dear friend. Now, money wasn’t the issue anymore, even though he offered a tidy sum, enough to ease Mr. Evans’ monetary issues. It was purely a platonic exchange by this point, and my offer went by the wayside. Thankfully, the day that the transaction was supposed to take place, the buyer’s carriage somehow managed to...lose a wheel.”

“Oh, Aziraphale, you _didn’t_.” 

Aziraphale sipped his wine, eyes twinkling deviously. 

“You bastard, you _did_!” Crowley said, delighted. “But if he was such a close friend, wouldn’t he have waited for him?”

“See, and it was the funniest thing, Lord Tipton’s courier somehow managed to get lost on the road leading to town. Somehow, he thought a village seven miles away was where the transaction was supposed to take place. Meanwhile, Mr. Evans’ own courier managed to spot a man who looked like Tipton in a bar.”

“Oh, you’re shameless.”

“The courier walked into the bar, asked ‘Lord Tipton’ when he’d come to buy the book. His exact words don’t bear repeating, but the gist was, ‘can’t you see I’m drinking here? Leave me and don’t bother me again.’”

The demon crowed with laughter. “Geez, angel, strong-arming like that and you’d give the _mafia_ a run for their money.”

Aziraphale’s glass was set down so abruptly that it skidded on the counter; and with so much force, too, that only his celestial presence prevented the stem from snapping. Wine still sloshed over the edges, though, staining the wood table just below the counter. Crowley didn’t get a chance to comment, however, because Aziraphale, turning pale as a ghost, said, “I beg your pardon?”

Crowley’s brows knit together. “I said that the way you handled that would’ve made the mafia blush. What’s gotten into you?” His words were blunt, but he couldn’t prevent a hint of confused concern from slipping through. 

“Nothing,” Aziraphale said. “Nothing! I’m fine, sorry, just thought I misheard you.” He took more wine from the bottle, his hand trembling minutely. He only seemed to notice the spilled wine then, and waved it clean. 

“You sure? You’ve seemed restless for weeks now.”

“Have I? I didn’t notice,” Aziraphale said. He wouldn’t meet Crowley’s eyes. 

“Bullshit. You’re an awful liar, you know you are.”

He gave Crowley an exasperated look, but it didn’t meet his eyes. “Well, if you must know…I found that some of my inscriptions have been redone in crayon, and are now been spelled correctly.” 

“Is that it?”

“Of course! Do you know how hard it was to find some of those authors and _get_ their signatures? Poor Milton’s is in _green_.” 

“Angel, I think we can fix something like that.” He waved a hand in a lazy circle for emphasis.

“It won’t be the same. What if I forget that author’s particular misspellings, or their vernacular? Better to just leave it be.” He sipped the wine. “In any case, it’s been bothering me for a bit.” 

“Are you _sure_ ? Because if it’s one of _them_ , I think I have a --”

“No! No, it’s not _them_ , Crowley,” Aziraphale cut in, indignant. “Believe me, I would tell you.”

“You didn’t during Armageddon,” he said.

It was a quick retort, no thinking involved on his part, and his jaw clicked shut as soon as it came out. Regret and panic began to set in as he saw Aziraphale’s face fall.

“Angel, I’m --” 

“No, Crowley, don’t apologize,” he said, setting his glass down. “In truth, I ought to. I’m sorry. I should have trusted you more, and confided in you. Instead, I kept everything a secret until the last moment. And I hurt you, with my words at the bandstand. They were so…cruel, and untrue, and I’m terribly sorry.”

“'S fine, Aziraphale,” he said. 

“No, it’s -- it was unfair to you. I knew that you didn’t want the world to end, either, but I thought…well, Heaven would be able to see the value of life more than Hell would, and maybe if I could convince them, then we wouldn’t have to worry about the silly war.” 

Crowley must’ve worn that look of disdain at the mention of Heaven that he felt, because Aziraphale continued.

“It’s no excuse. I know _now_ that that was a mistake, and that they don’t really care, but I should’ve realized that long ago. I should’ve realized what they were, and _we_ were, and I should’ve put my faith in the right person. I hurt you, and I hope you can forgive me.” 

Crowley swallowed. He wanted to take Aziraphale’s hand. Instead, he flexed his fingers against the wineglass. 

“Yeah, okay, it did hurt, then,” he said. “But I’ve already forgiven you, angel.”

Aziraphale’s face brightened considerably, and Crowley’s heart melted at the sight.

“Thank you, dear boy,” he said, voice full of reverence. 

It’s enough that Crowley believed that _that_ was the thing that was bothering Aziraphale. So much so that he didn’t bring it up again, and they continued the night in easy conversation and, eventually, in enjoying the bread. 

(3) It was, in fact, half revenge for talking to them that way, as well as half Crowley leaving them in the oven for another twenty-five minutes so they learn "who's boss in this kitchen."

(4) Love, while being a primary component, is also not the only reason. Aziraphale not going a half cup over the recipe in flour and drowning it in milk to compensate also helped make his recipe more successful.

* * *

However shit Crowley is at baking, though, Aziraphale is at least as bad when it comes to planting. (5) He has a few pots in his flat upstairs, kept far away from the books in case the watering can tips too far (first mistake: watering can. Crowley has spent so much time trying to convince Aziraphale of the wonders of a modern plant mister, but he’d only get a few hums in response as the angel gets a faraway look in his eyes). (6) Aziraphale was never good at discipline, for himself or for his plants. It’s endearing, but at the same time they were _obviously_ spoiled and lazed about with all manner of spotted petals, drooping stems and yellowing leaves. It was almost revolting. Oh, sure, plants flourish under love, but they also die as soon as the first cold snap hits. Some don’t even bother to bloom! Freeloaders! 

But Heaven forbid -- literally? Aziraphale isn’t exactly part of the Host anymore, but he still keeps the perks, so it’s a weird turn of phrase -- that Crowley try and put some zeal into them. No, it’s all, “ _Dear Lord, Crowley, they’re shaking_ ” and, “ _Now, was it really necessary to bring up your mulcher_?” and, “ _I swear, I heard them have nightmares the other day,_ please _stop talking to my plants._ ” 

Aziraphale’s method was more along the lines of check in, water, shower them with love, leave them be. That is, when he remembers he had flowers at all. Truth be told, Crowley is certain that Aziraphale only ever talks to _his_ plants, in order to downplay all his hard work. Aziraphale will linger in the atrium for a few moments longer, pretending that Crowley can't hear him. What’s truly upsetting to Crowley about it is that he can’t really bring himself to stop him, at least not right away. There’s a moment where he’s just so overwhelmed by the sight of the angel illuminated in the sunlight,(7) beaming at his plants, murmuring sweet words of affection, that he becomes breathless and needs a minute to compose himself and (gently) steer the angel away from the plants, and to another part of his flat, usually to admire the view. 

The tipping point came on one such night, where Aziraphale and him were out on the balcony. They planned on watching the stars, feeling a little nostalgic (Crowley for his most appreciated craft, Aziraphale for a past that he couldn't go back to. Both were unpleasant to think too much about, so Crowley settled for drinking). The air outside was a little nippy, and he'd prefer to stargaze from the atrium, but he couldn't afford the plants to see him near Aziraphale anymore. More and more frequently, he'd catch his face softening and his footsteps lightening whenever he was around them, and he had a reputation to maintain. A kettle was set on the rarely used stove inside, one more touch of homeyness that Aziraphale seemed to bring with him whenever he came over.

He was about to summon up some infernal space heater to combat the chill and truly appreciate the miraculously clear and bright London sky, but thankfully Aziraphale beat him to it with fluffy blankets. It was almost enough to derail his train of thought, but thankfully Aziraphale brought him right back onto it.

“I don’t believe it. They’re supposed to be…I don’t know, _aloof_. Above it all.” 

"No, _nope_ , swear it, the Do- the Dominions get _really_ competitive over nebulas. 'S why there's that one that looks like a horse's head. Never really a fan of that one." He might be drunk, but sue him, talking about the past brings that out in him. 

"Oh, come on, you mean to -- you mean to te--” Aziraphale was also drunk. “ _Tell_ me that an angel inspired _horses_ through stars?"

"Angel- _s_. Two o' 'em. Hey, I'm just saying, the Almighty was a big fan of --" and his grip on the railing slips. Normally, this wouldn't happen, as Crowley has mastered the art of smooth lounging. However, tonight seemed to be working against him. Firstly, it rained the previous afternoon, and Crowley hadn't bothered to miracle it dry. 

Secondly, he was _incredibly_ drunk. He didn't consider himself a lightweight, but he and Aziraphale were about to open their tenth bottle of the night. 

Thirdly, he was a little lost in the angels' eyes, and was subconsciously leaning towards them. _Well, you tricky little subconscious, you got your wish,_ he thought venomously.

Because, suddenly, he's in Aziraphale's space, having stumbled just inches shy of his face. Aziraphale steadied him by gripping his forearms. Nearly nose-to-nose, eyes locked onto each other. Crowley wasn't quite sure where Aziraphale's wine glass went (his own toppled onto a metal chair, miraculously -- but not through their intervention -- not shattering) but all he could focus on was the warmth emanating from his palms into Crowley’s upper arms and into his core, more sustained than baking ever was. More intimate than _any_ of their touches ever were. His heart --usually useless and there for the sake of being there -- sang so loudly and so sweetly that it’d give the Seraphim a run for their money. He own eyes darted, behind his glasses, to the blue of his eyes, the pink of his lips. Oh, Crowley was gone, and he wanted nothing more than to lean in and cover his lips with his own. He was practically screaming at himself to just take the plunge and move just seven inches closer, tilt his head just so, and _kiss the Principality already!_ But fear kept him stock still, and shock or confusion must have done the same to Aziraphale. 

The tea kettle whistled in the kitchen, breaking the moment. 

"I should, ah," Aziraphale said, suddenly sober. He steadied Crowley into an upright position, and moved to pat his shoulders but seeming to think better of it. Without saying another word, he picked up the discarded wine glasses and shuttled off into the kitchen. 

“‘Kay,” Crowley called after him, not bothering to sober up himself. He waited till Aziraphale was out of earshot to fold his arms over the balcony, bury his face in them, and groan.

(5) To be fair, although he'd never address it, either, Aziraphale has similarly high standards for baking.

(6) The look, dear reader, is dreamy, head-over-heels enamorment. There is few things Aziraphale loves more than Crowley talking about the things he loves. Crowley interprets it as vague disinterest in being a proper plant owner.

(7) When it's cloudy out, he miracles a little spare sunlight to linger in his room. London weather is often too gloomy for his garden, and there's only so much a stern talking to can do for photosynthesis.

* * *

Crowley was in Tadfield for the day, visiting the Pulsifer-Devices on one of their ‘what’s changed’ sessions. Anathema and Newt had put together that him and Aziraphale were involved in the End of the World That Just Didn’t Make It (8) and she had decided, as one final method of closure, to figure out what happened. After that, she said, she might start looking into journalism. See what was happening in the present, as opposed to the past and/or future, as she put it. Crowley would never admit to it, but he was certain she would make it; Anathema had a sharp mind and quick wit, as well as a knack for piecing things together and asking all the right questions to pull out a story. She’d be a natural. Already, an envelope from the New Aquarian was hung up on the fridge, so he supposed that her talents were being rewarded.

That said, he never wanted her to turn that inquisitive eye towards his _thrice-blessed love life!_

Anathema happened to be terrifyingly in-tune with what Crowley felt about Aziraphale. Crowley decided to pin it on her psychic abilities, because the alternative of him being _that_ obvious was a little too much for his pride. 

Newt, mundane as they come, raising his eyebrows at him whenever Aziraphale decided to tag along was something he would rather not focus on, for similar reasons.

“You really ought to tell him,” Anathema said casually. Too casually. The type of casually that had hours of preparedness behind it. 

“Tell him that the London Eye has two more cars than usual?” Crowley deflected, eyes discreetly darting down for the first few items on their list. Thank random-pedestrian-that-stayed-out-of-his-way for sunglasses. “Or that the inscription on his copy of _Paradise Lost_ is written in green crayon now? Because the former he doesn’t really care about, and the latter he’s already broke down over.”

“You know what I mean. By the way, Agnes was rooting for --” 

"Don't you _dare_ finish that sentence. How would you know? Aziraphale went through the entire blessed thing and never brought anything up."

"I know. I just _do_. Ex-professional descendent, remember?" She leaned forward, chin in her hand. "I know how to read between the lines. Also, wasn't that just a bit defensive? How do you know that I know there's something _to_ bring up?"

“You're the one implying,” Crowley stood up abruptly. “Listen, I have an appointment. Lovely being here, you’re welcome for that,” he pointed at the list, and also gestures to himself in the process, “as well as my presence, but best be off now. Ciao!” 

“It could be better than it is, you know!” she called.

“I said _ciao!_ ” he said, only a little shrill, as he made a very cool and suave exit. He didn’t even run at all. 

The words ended up sticking with him, though, and he started to think of ways to say, “Angel, hey, loved you for six thousand years” without the inevitable rejection. 

(8) Albeit very, very tangentially.

* * *

His answer came to him the very next day, while he and Aziraphale were heading out to the theatre. (9) All it took was for Aziraphale to make an off-handed comment about being out of blueberries for muffins that gave Crowley an idea. 

The playwright was a new upstart, the show a cozy and simple comedy. It wasn’t anything particularly special, but the company made tickets worth every miracled cent. For one, he maybe, _perhaps_ , was hopelessly in love for Aziraphale for about as long as he’d known him. For another, Aziraphale was just really fun to take to plays. He’d never really got out of the practice of commenting loudly during them, expecting the actors to want immediate feedback. That might’ve flown during the first Elizabethan era, but now there were only so many miracles they could burn before an usher decided they needed to leave. As such, Crowley convinced him somewhere during the 1920s that whispering was the new etiquette.

At the time, it helped bring about enough low-grade evil from audience and actors alike to cover his reports on slower days. 

By now, it's just habit. 

This time, though, as he and Aziraphale leaned in to whisper and exchange notes or barbs on the performance, he was formulating a plan. 

He couldn't keep it in any longer. The secret was always on his lips whenever he was with Aziraphale. They never spent so much time together, and Crowley was becoming increasingly aware that he was liable to spout all sorts of mushy, sentimental prose, the likes of which would give Hallmark a run for its money. 

Three little words that would, in any scenario, change what 6000 years had built. He didn’t want to say... _it,_ but it's either let it spill out of him like wine from a cracked wineskin or say it suavely and with an exit strategy in mind. And Crowley, above all else, was a planner. The choice was obvious.

As soon as the play ended and Aziraphale was at the shop, he made his way to the nearest nursery. (10) He spent an hour perusing the blueberry plants with a careful and discerning eye, and resolutely ignored the employees that gave him dirty looks from the register.. He didn’t want to waste time growing one from scratch, and miracling one seemed...impersonal, when Aziraphale was trying so hard to do everything from scratch.

Staring at these plants, he wished Aziraphale would just give in and take some shortcuts already. Crowley can’t very well hand _any_ of these to Aziraphale. They’re all lacking: this one too droopy, that one too small. 

He picked the best of a bad bunch and took it home in stony silence, confident that he can still ooze menace and fright. He got a few pale faces and a clear path on the sidewalk, so he figured that it was working swimmingly.

He had been sure to turn off the radio in the Bentley to prevent the plant from getting the wrong ideas, however. All he needed was for his intimidation technique to be ruined by his damned car belting out how in love he is by way of Freddy Mercury.(11) 

“Allow me to be perfectly frank,” he said as he strolled into his flat. “You are meant as a gift for a dear friend of mine. I will not accept anything less than absolute _perfection_ in your growth. You’re already a little too wilty for my liking. So, I’m giving you a week to get your shit in gear, or I _will_ destroy you and replace you with something better. He won’t be craving blueberries forever, after all.” 

He set it between the kentia palms, and bent down a little so he was eye level with it.

“If you have any doubts, ask them what I do to slackers.”

The blueberry plant was shaking in apprehension, but it wasn't quite terror yet.

 _Yet_.

"Alright," Crowley rose slowly, voice low and cold. "A demonstration, then."

He scanned the sea of shaking leaves, eventually settling on a potted petunia. Stepping closer, he saw that one of the flowers, carefully turned away from his eye-line, was dropping a little. It was trembling even harder as he picked it up. A shame, he particularly enjoyed this one, but needs must. He raised it within view of the others, made eye contact with the blueberry (12) in particular, then sauntered off to the back room.

When he returned, instead of carrying the empty pot back to his guest room (more a storage shed at this point than anything, really), he set it beside the blueberry plant as a warning. 

It took a week, but the plant was finally looking presentable. Good thing, too: Aziraphale had mentioned that he wanted to try something a little more difficult soon.

(9) Community theatre -- unclear which side is really responsible -- which Crowley and Aziraphale had been sure to be supportive patrons of.

(10) The nursery employees, who were supposed to end an hour ago yet for some reason decided to stay open later, glared at Crowley when he walked in. None of them really knew why, exactly.

(11) The Bentley, unlike his plants, had long since realized that it could get away with more with Crowley. If you asked Crowley, it was because it was more difficult to replace a 90 year old car than a Devil's Ivy, and the blessed car knew it. If you asked Aziraphale, it was because Crowley was a softie who loved the Bentley. If a truly omnipotent Being decided to weigh in Her input, it was probably a mix of the two.

(12) As much as one can, anyway.

* * *

Here was the plan:

Crowley had bought tickets to an opera. It was an older one, one that they had seen first performed in the nascent years of the seventeenth century. Fond memories of those times: Crowley was causing political mischief in northern Italy, Aziraphale often in the neighbourhood to thwart him, plenty of good food and entertainment when they were done.

Anyway, opera. When he would pick Aziraphale up from the bookshop, he'd also casually give him the blueberries, casually bring up his emotions concerning the angel, and casually allow Aziraphale to sweep him into his arms as they kissed with all the tender passion he felt in the past six thousand years. Then, they would go to the opera and hold hands through the entire thing. Or at least, that was what he dreamt of the night before.

Realistically, he thought as he laid down in his bed the morning prior, he was expecting Aziraphale to gently let him down, for them to remain friends with an unspoken, incredibly awkward thing between them. Or, Crowley skips town and dashes around the globe until the next doomsday. Or maybe, if Aziraphale is truly disgusted by this confession, he can always turn himself into Hell and --

Whoa, okay, dark thoughts. Better nip that in the bud before he truly drowned himself in it. In fact, he had begun to start questioning whether he should confess at all. The status quo _is_ quite fine as it is. 

Then, he remembered when Aziraphale smiled at him with those soft eyes when he held the door of the Bentley open for him and, Anathema's words ran through his head again. What if it could be better? More intimate? What if all those soppy confessions he dreamt of could exist in reality? After all, Aziraphale was just as happy in his company as he'd always been, and a lot more relaxed recently. 

So, he rolled himself out of bed, armed with a plan and a potted plant, and drove over to the bookshop, then marched up to the flat upstairs.

As many plans in Crowley's existence tended to go, this plan was dashed rather quickly. 

It all went south as soon as he ascended the stairs and smelled the faintest whiff of smoke. He was only spared from full-blown panic when he, desperately reaching out, felt Aziraphale's presence. Like the pressure before a good thunderstorm, or a weighted blanket, it settled over him and soothed him. His hand still shook as he reached for the doorknob, though.

When Crowley walked in, he found Aziraphale sitting in one of his overstuffed chairs, wiping his face hurriedly. On the table in front of him was a nearly empty bottle of wine. A tray of wonky and burnt to a crisp sfogliatelle rested on the countertops, the ricotta filling oozing out of them in an oddly gruesome way. The lights were dim, and the room lacked its usual warmth. The demon felt a touch of trepidation, but pushed in anyway.

“Crowley! Sorry for the mess!”

“What’s the occasion, angel?” he called. 

“I found a recipe online, prepared the dough yesterday,” Aziraphale said with a wet sniff. He still didn’t face him, and his voice was full of false cheer. “Unfortunately, it did recommend practice in making pasta, and I’m afraid I went in a little blind.”

"No kidding," he said. "Suppose the difficulty level just wasn't daunting enough?"

“I was feeling a touch nostalgic, I suppose.”

“Well, we can forget the opera if you want, find some good sfoglia -- sflo -- oh, sod it, _lobster tails_.” 

Aziraphale stirred at that. 

"The opera. Of course, I'm terribly sorry, dear, I forgot all about the opera! I thought it was tomorrow, if I remembered it wouldn't be… again, I'm sorry, I'll be refreshed in just a moment." He stood and made for the bathroom.

“Wait, angel --” He called out. The rest of the words died in his throat, but Aziraphale stopped immediately. 

Demons may not be able to sense love, but they can sense other things. Fear, anguish, all the negative emotions that angels didn’t want to waste time on. (13) Crowley _had_ been walking further into the flat, but was stopped by the overwhelming feeling of dread and pure, palpable misery, all radiating off of Aziraphale. Looking closer, he saw that his shoulders were hunched, trembling just slightly, and his head tilted down. He was slouched, as he did when he was too overwhelmed to stand primly. He turned to face Crowley, and every line on his face looked as old as…well, time itself, given how old they truly were. He didn’t look like he’d been crying, but his face was twisting up minutely and Crowley got the feeling that he might start soon. He hurriedly set the pot down onto the crowded counter, (14) rushing to his swaying side.

“Hey, what’s the matter?” he asked. When he put a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, the angel’s face crumpled further, and Crowley assumed the worst. “You didn’t...you didn’t hear from either of our sides, did you?” 

Aziraphale shook his head. Crowley gently led him back to his seat eased him back down. 

“Then what is it? Are you in trouble? What happened?”

Eventually, Aziraphale took in a shuddering breath, and said, “I knew about the bakery’s mafia ties.” 

Crowley’s brow knitted in confusion. “Um? Okay?”

“For awhile. About as long as I’ve been going.” 

“...And?”

“I figured, they’re good people,” Aziraphale continued. “They do good work. They were always so polite, and they donated to charity. I thought to myself,” he sniffed, “well, it doesn’t matter _how_ they get their money, what matters is what they’re doing with it.” 

"So I guess the pastries were too good to pass up, huh?” Crowley tried to joke. 

It didn’t help any. Aziraphale’s eyes just grew more wet, and he sniffled greatly. 

“But they got caught, regardless,” Aziraphale moaned, his face crashing into his palms. “And they had their... _everything_ taken away from them because of...because…” He breath did hitch rather suspiciously at this part, shoulders shaking. 

Crowley felt something rather cold slide down his chest and into his gut.

“Angel, be honest with me,” he said, slowly. “Are you worried about us?” 

Aziraphale nodded miserably, head still in his hands. 

“So I suppose you’re worried that we’re not actually in the clear?”

Another nod.

“Are you…is it Falling, that you’re afraid of?” he asked. It felt like Crowley had removed a floodgate, and suddenly he couldn’t stop talking. “Am I the mafia, in this scenario? Did I cause you to Fall? Will I?”

Aziraphale jerked his head up, and looked at him incredulously. He opened his mouth, but all that came out was a hitched sob. 

Crowley couldn’t take it anymore. He had to leave. He couldn’t stand being in this overly welcoming flat while the love of his -- his _best friend_ was weeping over a fate that wouldn’t have happened if Crowley just...just _what?_ Stayed away? Let him go during the Apocalypse? Fought against him, as was predestined in the thrice-blessed, literally damned Great Plan? It was the bandstand all over again, the “we’re not friends” all over again. Except that was just a warning, and this was the consequences. With that wretched thought, he made to stand. He felt nearly nauseous with guilt, his stomach and chest twisting and squeezing. 

“No, please, stay,” Aziraphale cried, finally finding his voice, and gripped his arm, clinging to it. In truth, in his drunken state, it would be laughably easy to shake off, but the desperation in his voice and hold gave Crowley pause. Besides, even as his heart was breaking, it would be difficult to deny Aziraphale his company. Or anything, really. “Please, you misunderstand me, my dear. You aren’t the mafia ties; you’re the bakery.”

“I’m not following here,” Crowley said, helpless and hopeful. “Sober up?” 

Aziraphale did just that, composing himself a little after but looking no less miserable. His hand slid down to hold Crowley’s, tentatively. And Crowley, who had held the angel’s hand before, but never with such an air of tension between them, squeezed it back. Aziraphale ran his thumb over Crowley’s knuckles, over and over again, like he was afraid he'd disappear. 

“I thwarted Heaven’s plans,” Aziraphale explained. “Granted, it was for the good of humanity, but I did stop a war they were keen on fighting. And I thought that I got away with it, but...well, the last time that Richard stole a car was _a decade_ ago, and they’ve been trying to go legitimate for years. I thought they were in the clear; I even considered miracling them out of that dreadful business, just for some closure. Then it looked like they were finally getting some peace, and suddenly they’re caught.” He swallowed, and looked Crowley in the eye. “All I could think about, for the past two weeks, was whether Heaven would come and see you, and…that’s too much to bear, Crowley. Falling is something I can deal with, but if Heaven were to...to _harm_ you, or…”

Feeling the angel start to spiral, Crowley knelt by his side, as if to say, ‘hey! Still here! Not getting rid of me that easy!’ “That’s not gonna happen.” Crowley moved to put his free hand on Aziraphale’s cheek, but caught himself and placed it on his shoulder. Much safer, there, even if everything in Crowley was screaming at him to pull Aziraphale closer. “Like I said, they won’t bother us, not until they’re willing to work together against _all_ of us. Humanity, whatever. And even if they did, you think I’m letting some _bureaucrats_ take me alive? Please. As far as they know, we’re immune to the only things that can kill us.” 

“Regardless, Heaven can find a way to punish _you_ , and that’s what frightens me,” Aziraphale said. 

“What happened to, ‘at a guess, they’ll pretend it never happened’?”

“That was _before_ the bakery. And I just worry that they know that I…” He closed his eyes as if to brace himself. “Well, that I love you.” 

Crowley was stunned into silence. His brain was struggling to catch up. No, there’s no way -- that’s impossible, Aziraphale must be...and to say it so _easily_!

“I’ve loved you for quite some time now,” Aziraphale continues like Crowley didn’t just hear the best news of his existence. “And I know that _they’re_ not exactly the most observant, but that’s all I’ve been able to think about for the past few weeks. Crowley it would absolutely destroy me if anything were to happen to you."

"Well," Crowley said, a little distantly. "Damn. You beat me to it."

Aziraphale lifted an eyebrow, and Crowley flailed an arm towards the blueberry plant. He felt like he wasn’t quite inside of his body, like he was spilling over the edges and into the ether. (15) He's not quite sure that this wasn't entirely a dream. 

But Aziraphale swiped at the tears in his eyes and turned to face it. The smile he had on his face when he turned back was hopeful, brittle, relieved and exhausted all in one. It was enough for reality to dispel that notion, as cool and refreshing as morning mist. Crowley swallowed and let hope fill him.

“Was -- it _is_ a gift. Help me to, um. To tell you how I feel. Which is that I love you.”

"Oh, my dear," he sniffs. "I love it. It's _lovely,_ Crowley."

"It was..." and the quip he had ready died in his throat. "You know I'll never go off and leave you, right?" 

"Yes, of course, but if they--"

"No. No, not even if they _try_ to. I'm not going anywhere."

"I thought you were supposed to be the pessimistic one."

"Sometimes I'm a realist. I have faith in me. You. _Us_. Face it, we're fucking unique. I have an imagination, and you have a functioning moral compass."

"As do you." There was a fondness in Aziraphale's eyes that was slowly overcoming the overwhelming torment. Crowley's heart slowly untwisted itself at the sight, but he couldn't get distracted, now, not till they were finished. 

"Slander. Anyway, we beat those idiots before. Heaven isn't gonna touch me, and Hell will _never_ touch you. I'll be damned again before I let it happen, and I know you'll protect me."

"And I'll be damned before they ever lay a hand on you, my dear." Aziraphale confirmed fiercely. 

"See, that's the exact thing we're preventing, here."

Crowley pulled Aziraphale closer with their held hands. 

"What we have isn't a weakness that they can exploit, and it isn't for them to take away. They never had that power, angel. What we have is stronger than both of them, and we've _proven_ it, for six thousand years, and after the end of the bloody world! They're scared of us, Aziraphale! We aren't some bakery that can get shut down on a whim and a warrant. Okay?"

"Okay." Aziraphale said. 

The proximity between them crackled again with that unspoken tension they felt that night on the balcony, and countless nights before. Crowley swallowed, once again frozen by all the possibilities that lay before him. He was, therefore, immensely glad that Aziraphale made the first move. 

He gently removed Crowley’s sunglasses with his free hand, then cupped his face, running a thumb along his cheekbone. "Crowley?"

"Yeah?"

“May I kiss you?”

Crowley leaned in as an answer.

Their lips met, and it was everything Crowley had hoped for and more. It was home. He had kissed before (16) but it was never like this, never so reassuring and soft, passion and tenderness mingling in the air between them. 

Aziraphale’s hands moved to pull him in closer, settling between his shoulder blades and on his lower back, and Crowley couldn’t help but melt in the embrace, eyes fluttering closed. His whole body was warm and floating. They broke eventually, not for air, but so that Aziraphale could kiss both corners of his mouth, his nose, his cheeks, each press of his lips against skin a promise of love and devotion. Of time and safety. Crowley may not be able to feel love, the presence of it, in the same way Aziraphale could anymore, but even he could feel the love Aziraphale had for him. It was so wonderfully overwhelming that he wondered how he missed it in the first place.

Eventually, he opened his eyes again, rewarded with the sight of his angel with such love in his eyes that he felt as though he'd discorporate. 

“I think I could do that all night,” Aziraphale breathed.

“Can I tempt you to?” Crowley asked.

“And the opera?” he countered, although his tone was that of someone who was fully ready to give in.

Crowley lied back and snapped absentmindedly. “Already taken care of.” He moved his hand to wrap around Aziraphale’s neck, pulling him down for another kiss. 

They spent the rest of the evening like this, wrapped in tender embrace around each other, kissing slowly and gently caressing each other. Occasionally, they’d break to talk, but neither brought up Heaven or Hell again: they waited six thousand years for this, and the Earthly night was quiet and safe, a sanctuary against both their sides. 

(13) Or good emotions, too, for that matter. Angels tended to pride themselves -- although you'd never catch them admitting to it -- in being above such base, material things as emotions. "Haughtiness is close to Godliness" is the motto of Heaven.  
Aziraphale, meanwhile, delights in all aspects of the material world, including emotions. Nothing better than a good cry, except perhaps a good bout of unbridled joy, or uninhibited love. It makes him easier to read than most angels, as well as easier to be around.

(14) The plant had the good sense to adjust itself so it didn't wobble off the edge. The baking ingredients had the nerve to stay put.

(15) This is a possibility for angels and demons. It makes travel a little easier, but comes with a horrible sense of pins and needles when returning to the corporeal form. 

(16) Not quite to the same extent as Aziraphale, however: for reference, consider Crowley as a three-panel pamphlet, single sided, versus Aziraphale as an annotated Bible, containing both Testaments and various introductions by verbose theologians.

* * *

It was only when morning dawned again that Crowley felt the need to bring it up again. They were sitting in Aziraphale’s warm kitchen, having miracled a bag of bagels and two takeaway cups of coffee from the café down the road. (17) 

“We could always horde Hellfire and Holy Water,” he suggested. “Get ourselves a little horde, set up some sigils. I don’t think they’d bother us till the next Doomsday, but can’t hurt to be prepared.” 

Aziraphale hummed thoughtfully. 

“We’d have to be careful with handling it, and storage might be an issue. Especially given the fact that we live in two seperate places.” He fiddled with the rim of his cup. “Of course, if you’d like, we might…that is to say, you and I could, perhaps…move in together?”

Crowley felt a smile break his face. “Now who’s moving fast, angel?”

“Not _too_ fast, I hope?”

“’Course not. Unless it is for you?” And Crowley hoped, one might even say _prayed_ , (18) that Aziraphale was actually ready and did not merely suggest this out of necessity. 

But the look he gave him was pure, earnest hope, and it shone as true as sunlight through the clouds. He reached across the table, grasping Crowley’s hand.

“My dear,” he said, “I believe we have finally caught up to one another.” 

(17) The owner had been dealing with a particularly rude couple who _refused_ to accept that the blueberry muffins did not contain poppy seeds, and insisted that the recipe must have recently changed. Despite having owned this bakery for longer than the Antichrist was alive, the owner had to pull out the recipe book and demonstrate the exact recipe in order to satisfy them. By that point, the cashier who called her decided it was wise not to mention the extra ten pounds in the cash, as well as the baker's dozen fewer bagels in the display case.

(18) That is, if that person would also happen to want each and every one of their socks to be filled with Legos for the rest of their lives.

* * *

They ended up missing the opera, of course, but miraculously, they had another showing the very next night. Their usual whispered comments were also peppered with gentle kisses, as well as Aziraphale gently laying his head on Crowley's shoulder. Their hands were twined together, a promise to the entire universe, and everything outside and in between, that nothing could tear them apart. 

  


**Author's Note:**

> Me, starting this off: wow I'm a really romantic guy, I'm sure I can write the kissing scene well! Let me just save it till the end  
> My inexperience in dating/romance/anything: I'm gonna ruin this man's whole career
> 
> Also, things I would currently die for: olive bread.
> 
> Constructive criticism is super appreciated! And thank you for reading!


End file.
